Ruminations on Spirituality, Recovery and Creativity

Lynn

I’ve been less than connected to others during much of my life. I’m not so sure it was by choice. I often felt dark inside. Unable to receive light. To use illumination in any way. Such as to cast meaning and clarity on a situation. To show me a direction. To give sight where it didn’t seem to exist. It’s a singularly lonely feeling. An inability to latch on to others in any significant way. Sometimes it would feel like I was the only one in the room despite the cast of thousands swarming around me. I couldn’t even hear others breathing. Eye contact was not possible. The gaze of others was so bright it would cause me to squint and guard my eyes. All that content, all those queries, coming at me all at once. Blinding me. Confusing me. Causing me to shut down, which made it all the more impossible to go outside myself. Which, of course, led to cold, smothering, deep isolation.

I felt that way a lot. Communication was painful. Nauseating. I was fully shut down most of my childhood and teen years. We moved a lot as a family, which made my social awkwardness commonplace. It wasn’t just about girls. I liked girls. Obsessed over them. Oh, their lips and their curves. I was aware of every girl in the room. Not that I believed they were interested in me. I had too many problems dealing with people in general. Add sexual tension, and I was frozen in place.

I think that’s why it’s so fascinating to me that my first best friend was a girl. Lynn. She was cute. Not gorgeous. She had a fast reputation as a young woman, which sort of frightened me. (There’s no way I would know what to do.) Lynn was unique and otherworldly. She danced her own way. She did things she wanted to do, and she had no real sense of restraint. Her eyes were bright. Wide open. Telling. Funny thing though: I didn’t have to squint when I looked at her. The brightness I shied away from in others was warm and subdued in Lynn’s gaze. It was beyond a gaze, actually. It was a gentle peek inside. There was nothing threatening or overwhelming about her contact. I felt shallow and warm and alive when she looked at me. I felt aroused. Nothing too deep or complicated. No rules. No agenda. Just a slow sucking in. A natural feeling of compatibility. A very special feeling.

I didn’t quite understand what was going on between Lynn and I. We were not officially dating. But we were joined somehow; spiritually, maybe. It was as if we’d been gliding on a pathway of discovery and comprehension. No one ever understood me before Lynn. Freak that I was, I couldn’t understand me. I was lost even to myself, and so I couldn’t explain it. I had no respect for the feelings of others. You were no more than an object for me to use for my own ends. My ends were justified in my mind. There was only one way: the way I chose to go. I saw no other paths. I considered no consequences. Certainly, it was no concern to me how my behavior would effect someone else. This is, of course, the very root of my lack of friends. Even when my mistakes were pointed out to me, I couldn’t see them.

Except when they were pointed out by Lynn. She was gentle about it, and that was a first for me. No one had ever been gentle or respectful to me. It seemed that Lynn wanted me to learn something about myself that would lead to a happier life. She understood my isolation, and hoped to teach me of its source. She knew it wasn’t of my own doing. It was because of things that were done to me. My isolation was because of others. Lynn didn’t want me blaming myself for my lack of friendships despite my bad habits and selfish behaviors. She knew the egg (in this case) came before the chicken. My personality was hatched, in other words. Who I was and how I acted was a byproduct of how I was treated. Things were done to me in the name of love that affected me deeply.

Some days I wish Lynn were still here. She died of ovarian cancer ten years ago.